


Red Power at the Point

by clgfanfic



Category: War of the Worlds (TV)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-21
Updated: 2012-10-21
Packaged: 2017-11-16 18:57:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/542758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clgfanfic/pseuds/clgfanfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paul at West Point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Power at the Point

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in the zine Green Floating Weirdness #3 under the pen name Gillian Holt.

_"Absolutely one of a kind."_

 

          "But, sir, if we get caught—"

          Captain Langstrom stared at the third year cadet, then growled, "You won't get caught if you're careful and use your heads.  He's a loner.  It won't be hard to find him away from the rest of the plebes.  Besides, Wilson set it up so he and the other Olympic _hopefuls_ can use the track and field facilities.  That's your best bet."

          "But, sir, hazing like—"

          "Cadet," Langstrom snapped, causing the three young men to pull up into rigid attention stances.  "I thought you shared my distaste for that Indian being here."

          "Yes, sir!" they chorused.

          He nodded.  It had taken most of the first term to locate the right cadets, but the captain was sure it would be well worth the wait to see Ironhorse's butt booted out of the Point.

          "This is the perfect opportunity.  The whole damn Red Power bull is getting out of hand.  And Ironhorse thinks his shit doesn't stink after getting the nod for a shot at Mexico City."  The three cadets shifted slightly, but nodded their agreement.  "So, just watch him.  Find the right moment, and we'll eliminate one undesirable from our ranks."

          "Yes, sir," they replied.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Paul Ironhorse slowed to a jog, letting the momentum of his last sprint carry him around the track for a final, slow run.  He _had_ to improve his speed times, but he was more comfortable with long distances.  Endurance, not speed, was his talent.  He shook his head slightly.  The whole thing was nuts.  The Olympics?  The coach had to be crazy.  He was too small, too slow.  He wasn't a world class athlete, and _that_ was who he'd be up against.  Still, something deep inside the young man argued that he could do it.

          All the cadets preparing for the Olympic trials had been given access to the Point's track and field facility in the late afternoon/early evenings.  While the rest of the students studied, Ironhorse and the seven others were out running, or practicing various field events.  But tomorrow was the third round of academic exams, and Ironhorse was alone on the field.

          He wasn't worried about the coursework.  Careful to stay ahead of the classes, Ironhorse made sure he wouldn't have to let up on his training when the exams rolled around.  He needed every edge he could muster.

Slowing to a walk, he allowed himself one more lap to cool down before sitting in the damp grass to stretch.  He'd take a shower and then head back and review for an hour before dinner.  Standing, he bent forward and rested his hands on the grass in the ritual end to his work-out, letting the tightness flow out of his body and into the earth.  Straightening, he took a deep breath and headed for the showers.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "Now," the oldest cadet said quietly as he pulled a white handkerchief up to cover the bottom part of his face.  The two younger cadets followed suit and trailed behind.

          Ironhorse had just finished toweling dry and had stepped into his underwear and shorts when the three masked cadets surrounded him.  He'd heard them enter, but thought it might be the coach dropping by to lock up.  The black eyes narrowed, but he didn't say anything as the threesome moved in closer, the largest leaning over to slam Ironhorse's locker shut before he could remove any more of his clothes.

          "You _won't_ be needing those," the voice said.

          Ironhorse recognized it.  Larry Carter, a senior, one of the upper classmen who ran inspections on the plebe wings.

          "We have something more… appropriate."  Nodding to one of the others, Carter accepted a half-full pillowcase.  Reaching in, the senior pulled out a ten-foot length of rope before handing the sack back.

          Ironhorse stood, rigid, as Carter fitted the loop at one end over the plebe's head.  He'd been the butt of hazing before, but this was beyond the bounds of the Point's Code of Honor.  Paul weighed his options.  He could fight, and possibly end up injured and unable to make the trials; he could go along and probably end up humiliated; or he could play along until he found an opportunity to escape.  He opted for the latter.

          Carter tugged the rope tight around Ironhorse's neck, then stepped in closer.  "You do what you're told, Indian, and you won't get hurt.  It would be a real shame if you broke an arm this close to the trials, wouldn't it?"

          The muscles along Ironhorse's jaws twitched with barely controlled anger and he refused to respond.  Carter snapped a fist into the younger cadet's midsection, knocking the breath out of him.  Using the moment, he roughly dragged the Cherokee from the locker room.

          Paul sucked in deep breaths to fill his lungs as he ran along, flanked by the pair and led by Carter.  It was just getting dark but the air was already cold.  He felt the goose flesh prickle along his exposed skin and fought off the shiver that threatened.  When they reached a small stand of trees near the main entrance, the threesome stopped, Carter dragging Ironhorse into the shadows.  "Get the stuff," he commanded one of the other boys.

Reaching into the pillowcase, one of the pair removed a cheap feather headdress like the kind Woolworth sold for Halloween.  When he tried to fit it on Ironhorse's head, Paul ducked and stepped away.  The rope was immediately pulled tight around his throat, the pressure forcing him to bend forward in order to breathe, as the rough hemp rubbed painfully along his skin.

          "Stand still, Chief, or I'll hog tie you," Carter commanded nastily.

          "Yeah, here you go, _Chief_ ," the younger cadet said as he successfully pulled it down on Paul's head.

          Ironhorse ground his teeth and waited.  Paul's grandfather had taught him to listen as a child.  Listen and learn the lessons carried on the wind.  Listen and identify the sounds of animals and people.  Listen and understand the sounds of nature.  Those lessons would have another purpose now, he decided – revenge.  Thomas Harding.  A junior and one of the plebe dorm guards on the weekends.

          "And here's some war paint for you, Chief," the third said, removing a small metal can from the pillowcase.  Dipping his fingers into the red paint, he smeared it across Paul's face.

          Abbot Nelson, another junior, and a plebe peer advisor.

          While Carter continued to hold the rope tight, Harding and Nelson pulled more souvenir items from the pillowcase and fitted them on Ironhorse – elastic beaded arm bands with feathers, a plastic leather belt with gaudy flaps in the front and back, and a plastic tomahawk.  Ironhorse longed for the weapons his grandfather and he had designed, but they were hanging on his wall – right where Major Wilson had told him to put them.

          When the three finished decking Ironhorse out in the tawdry ensemble, they pushed and dragged him toward the main gates.  Once their intentions were clear, Paul planted his feet, jerking Carter to a halt.

          "No time to get stubborn now, Ironhorse," the senior growled.  "We're just going to help you get some publicity for your people's oppression."

          Nelson and Harding chuckled.  "Yeah, the reporters are going to _love_ this," Abbot said.  "Native American West Pointer ties himself to front gates to protest the Army's treatment of Redskins past and present."

          "I _don't_ think so," Ironhorse replied in a low growl.

          Carter yanked on the rope, cinching it tight around Paul's throat.  Reaching up, Ironhorse tried to work his fingers under the hemp.  Nelson and Harding looked to Carter for direction.  "Get him!" the senior yelled.  The pair moved in on Ironhorse, Harding ending up with a heel planted firmly in his midsection.

          Careful to keep from slipping in the damp grass, the plebe continued to fight until the three finally outmaneuvered him and tackled him to the ground.  The two juniors wrestled with him, and after several punches to his ribs and stomach, they pulled Ironhorse to his feet and dragged him the rest of the way to the closed gates.

Carter quickly tied Paul's hands around the tall black rods, then reached up and grabbed his short black hair, twisting Ironhorse's head back.  "Just be grateful we didn't give you a real beating, Injun," he snarled behind the white handkerchief.  He looked at the other two.  " _Now_ we go make a phone call."  Shoving Ironhorse's head forward, Carter walked away.  "Have a nice night."

          As soon as the cadets were out of sight, Ironhorse set to work on the ropes.  The knots were good, but hastily made, and with a determined effort, he worked his way out of them with a minimum of damage to his wrists.  Stripping the rope over his head, Ironhorse flung the offending length into the night, then reached up and snatched the war bonnet from his head, the cheap feathers crumpling under the force of his balled fingers.  He headed back to the gym at a time-setting run.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          The door was still unlocked.  Closing his eyes momentarily, Ironhorse murmured, "Thank you, Grandfather," as he pulled it open, spilling out the yellow light into the cold darkness.

          "Ironhorse?"  Paul felt himself spring to attention before he could register the voice.  "I've been looking for you."

          "No excuse, sir," the cadet responded.

          Major Wilson stepped forward, and motioned for Paul to enter the building.  Ironhorse did so, letting the door fall closed behind him.  Wilson's face set in granite neutral.  "What the hell happened to you?" the officer asked, taking in the disheveled appearance of the boy, the costume, red paint and the mangled headpiece in his hand.  The rope burns showing on Paul's wrists and neck did not escape the inspection.

          "Nothing, sir," Ironhorse boldly lied.

          Wilson's eyes narrowed.  "Cadet, hazing is _not_ permitted.  And _neither_ is lying about it."

          Ironhorse's jaw muscles popped.  "Yes, sir."

          The major shook his head as he circled around the boy.  " _Who_ was responsible?"

          "I don't know, sir," Ironhorse replied, his eyes fixed on the locker across the room.

          "Well, what _do_ you know, cadet?" Wilson commanded, his voice rising in volume.

          "Sir," Ironhorse replied, his back going more rigid.  He wanted to shiver, but refused.  "I finished practice, came back, and showered.  While I was dressing three cadets approached me."

          "Three?"

          "Yes, sir."

          Wilson completed a second circle, then took a seat on one of the long wooden benches that ran in front of the rows of wall lockers.  " _And?_ "

          "They took me out by the main road, dressed me up, and tied me to the front gate.  They left to call the press.  I worked myself free and came back here."

Major Wilson weighed the story.  He was sure it was the truth, but he was also sure it was the bare skeleton of the actual events.  "Why would they do that, cadet?"

          "They don't like Indians, sir," Ironhorse replied honestly.

          "Did you fight back?" Wilson asked, hoping there might be some physical evidence he could use to identify the three.

          "Not at first, sir," Paul ground out, reading the reason for the question wrong.

          "Why was that?"

          A rush of embarrassment reddened Ironhorse's face.  "They threatened to make sure I missed the Olympic trials." he stated.  "My mistake, sir."

          Wilson smiled inwardly.  Paul Ironhorse was not one to make excuses.  The boy had made a choice and was willing to stand by it.  The major nodded.  "Understandable."  Rising, he nodded toward the showers.  "Get cleaned up."

          "Yes, sir," Ironhorse said, glancing from the head dress in his hands to his locker.

          "I'll take that," Wilson said.  Paul deposited the offensive artifact into the officer's palm, then jerked back his hand when he realized that he'd exposed the rapidly reddening rope burn.

          Their gazes met for a moment, then Ironhorse stepped away, heading for the showers.  When he returned to his locker, he was surprised to find Wilson still there.  The officer made no conversation as Paul rapidly dressed.  When he was ready, Wilson followed him to the door, set the lock, and turned off the lights.

          "You should think about having someone at the infirmary look at those ribs," the major said, noting the developing bruises.

          "Yes, sir," Ironhorse replied, his back stiffening.

          "And you don't know who those cadets were?"

          "They were wearing handkerchiefs over their faces, sir," Ironhorse hedged as he walked into the night.

          "That doesn't answer the question," Wilson snapped, causing Paul to stop.  The cadet stood at attention as the officer reached him.  "I can understand loyalty to the Point, but those cadets do not belong here.  A code of silence isn't necessary."

          "They just did what they'd been told," Paul blurted out, wishing immediately that he had caught the words before they were spoken.  He added, "Sir."

          Wilson's eyebrows rose.  "I see," he said.  "Let's go."

          Reaching the plebe hall, Wilson stopped just short of the main doors.  "If I excuse you for being late, I'll have to file this incident."

          "I understand, sir," Ironhorse said, squaring his shoulders.  "It's my responsibility."

          Wilson watched the boy as he marched through the main doors and stopped at the desk.  Glancing at his watch the major realized that he had missed dinner looking for the wayward cadet.  Reporting in two hours late would earn Ironhorse at least a demerit, the first on his record, and probably a couple of hours walking the square.  Wilson shook his head.  Langstrom had to be behind the incident, he thought, his anger mounting.  That damned idiot was a pain in the butt, and he had no business at the Point, or in the Army, as far as the major was concerned.

          Watching Ironhorse sign in, then head upstairs to his room, Wilson wondered what kind of revenge the young man was planning.  The last thing they needed was a small covert war being waged on the grounds, but there was little he could do if Ironhorse wouldn't tell him who had been involved.  He hadn't expected the boy to talk, and, Wilson admitted to himself, he would have been disappointed if he had.  No, Ironhorse had to deal with this in his own way.  Wilson just hoped he didn't get caught.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          A short knock on the door was immediately followed by Langstrom as he entered Wilson's office without waiting for the major's acknowledgement.  It was just one of the man's many annoying habits.

          "They're ready for the upper class surprise inspection," the captain announced.

          Wilson studied the man's face.  Langstrom looked annoyed, and the major guessed it was because his plan to get Ironhorse dismissed had fallen through.  He'd have to keep a closer eye on the captain.  If he could prove the man was interfering with a cadet's performance, he see to it the asshole was doing duty in an Alaskan snow hut for the next ten years.

          "I don't see why we call them 'surprise' inspections when everyone knows about it before we get there," Wilson grumbled.

          Langstrom shrugged.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "And I suppose you think this is funny, cadet?"

          The loud bellows of Major Cathcart rolled down the hallway in the senior wing.  It was something one expected to hear among the plebes, not the upperclassmen.  Stepping into the room, Wilson fought to keep from laughing out loud.  The cadet stood at the side of his unmade bed, still dressed in his briefs.  Across the young man's cheeks were three streaks of black shoe polish, and there was the beginnings of a bruise on his left temple.

          "Do you have an explanation, cadet?"

          Carter whined.  "Someone snuck in here last night and—"

          Wilson felt Langstrom stiffen next to him.  The cadet's gaze slipped over Cathcart's shoulder and found Langstrom's.  The captain's head twitched slightly left and right.

          "Someone snuck in here in the middle of the night and did this?" Cathcart roared.  "And just who the hell could it have been, Carter, the Joker?  Are you moonlighting as Batman?"

          Wilson felt his lips twitch, but pulled them back into a disapproving frown.

          "I— I don't know, sir."

"I don't know, sir," Cathcart mimicked in a high pitched whine.  "Well, I know this, cadet!  No more passes, no more privileges!  You are a senior.  You have an _obligation_ to set a standard for the underclassmen.  You are a year away from taking your place in the United States Army, and I'll be damned if I let you embarrass the Point!  Is that clear?"

          "Yes, sir!"

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Walking squares in the light drizzle might have been punishment for most of the cadets, but Ironhorse found he didn't mind the time alone.  In the pale light reflecting from the windows, he marched off the square path with perfection.  His body on automatic, Ironhorse had time to review his studies, and try not to think about the "Chief" incident.  He was sure Captain Langstrom was behind the cadets' activity, but there was no way he could prove it.

          "About finished?"

          Ironhorse missed a beat, but recovered quickly and continued his path.  "Yes, sir," he said.  "Two more turns."

          Wilson waited for Ironhorse to finish and report.  The major wanted to move his umbrella over so the cadet was out of the rain, but it wouldn't have been appropriate.  "I hear they assigned you to the square all this week," he said.  That was probably Langstrom's doing.  Two days would have been more equitable with the infraction.

          "Yes, sir."

          Had he expected Paul to complain?  Wilson studied the young man.  He was by far the best cadet the major had seen, and Wilson was determined that Ironhorse would get the best the Army had to offer.  Every career officer looked for that one junior who would one day metaphorically take his place.  Wilson had found him in Paul Ironhorse.

          "I just wanted to pass along something that happened today that I thought you might find interesting."

          One eyebrow rose slightly.  "Yes, sir?"

          Wilson related the confrontation between Cathcart and Carter, then added that it seemed that two of the juniors had been similarly afflicted with a lapse of decorum.  All three cadets were on report and the incident was being filed as a brief outbreak of a secret society emerging among the students in support of Red Power.  The major finished, noting the neutral expression on Ironhorse's face and the fierce satisfaction in the young man's black eyes.

          "Sir, I'm not sure I understand," the cadet said.

          "Just a story, son… and a piece of advice," Wilson replied.  "There's a fine line between revenge and just deserts."

          "Yes, sir."

          "And there's an equally fine line between animosity and hatred."

"Yes, sir."

          "I would just hate to see a cadet's career ruined if he let his pride force him over either of those lines," Wilson concluded.  He'd kept Paul in the rain long enough.

          "Yes, sir," Ironhorse replied.

          "So, there will be a lot less excitement around here now," Wilson concluded, heading off to the dorm, Paul following.

          "Yes, sir."

          "Glad to hear it."  They reached the door and Wilson opened it, allowing Ironhorse to step into the shelter.  "But one of these days, when we're both sitting around the Officer's Club somewhere, I would like to hear how you managed it."

          The black eyebrows floated up the young man's forehead.  "Sir?" he questioned innocently.

          "Good night, Cadet," Wilson said with a chuckle.  He sobered and gave Paul a hard look.  "And keep yourself out of Langstrom's sights.  There's nothing you can do there.  I'll work on it."

          Ironhorse nodded.  "Yes, sir.  And good night to you, too, sir."

          Wilson watched the boy execute a textbook perfect about face and disappear down the hall.  "One of a kind," he muttered to himself.  "Absolutely one of a kind."


End file.
